farawayfrozen
by whizz
Summary: mr. darcy/elizabeth; sometimes, love simply does not get a second chance - and sometimes, it does.


**book/movie; **Pride & Prejudice  
**pairing; **Mr Darcy/Elizabeth  
**warnings; **AU  
**disclaimer; **I do not own Pride & Prejudice. Come on. 

**i.  
**

The prickling feeling from before hovers about the daintily decorated room - as if there is still invisible flames ignited beneath porcelain skin, licking along the reticulated veins and making the otherwise composed Elizabeth Bennet's blood boil. 

Her bangs are still damp against the heated skin of her forehead, eyelashes still thick and full of raindrop-wetness. Lips tinted a frozen blue, and the rush-like smell of spring and grass and blossoming life trailing after her; if it were not for this palpable validation, she could have sworn that the scene from this afternoon was nothing but her own infamous imagination.

Mr Darcy's handwriting is refined and formal as expected, but she would have never guessed that he was capable of bending the J's and Y's with such soft curves - the words look gentle, docile, and it is nothing like the frigid personality of the man behind the letter.

His words, however, hit her straight to center - because, as much as she dislikes to admit it, she was wrong about him.

_"..made me realize that you were the last man in the world I could ever be prevailed upon to marry_!"

It plays over and over again, like a theater play with no end; the raindrops trudging down the side of his face, his voice rushed but genuine, and his back as he left her standing, breath stolen and lost to the whining of the rain-splattering wind, more than merely pride wounded this time.

"I'm fine, Jane", Elizabeth assures, smile not reaching the depth of her eyes, "it's not as if I will ever see him again."

And that discovery tugs at the loose strings of her confused and ever-fighting heart - but young women like herself can not be bothered with loves lost and the sorrows of a still-grey sky, especially not in times like these; despite the almost-fairytale that could have been hers, Elizabeth is not the type of female to ponder over what if's.

The next day, Mr. Collins visits, a babbling storm of praise for Her Ladyship and all of the generous goods he is provided with.

It is almost too easy to force her lips into a faux-smile when he kneels in front of her, the ring's weight on her finger impossibly heavy as they tell her family the 'good' news.

The wedding is dashing and beautiful, and her sisters squeal about what a stunning bride she is - Jane's eyebrows, however, are knitted in worry, and Elizabeth has to swallow the lump in her throat as she pats her oldest sister's golden curls with a smile - "take care of eachother", she prompts, with a meaningful glance in Mr. Bingley's direction.

As she is to step towards her future husband, her father's shaking arm beneath hers, she swears she catches a glimpse of stormy blue eyes in the crowd of people.

Elizabeth turns, happy for the bridal veil hiding her stray tear - the only one she'll allow himself to shed in his name, she vows. Her voice resounds with a ringing "yes", the word itself seemingly growing in the back of her mouth, restricting her breath - she's much too aware of Mr. Darcy's piercing gaze at the back of her neck, and even more so of the lithe arm slung around him belonging to Anne de Bourgh.

She does not look back again.

**ii.**

_Had we never loved so kindly, had we never loved so blindly, never met - or never parted - we had never been broken-hearted._

Robert Burns

**iii.**

She smokes her last cigarette on the corner of Covent Garden, trying with utmost determination to savour each inhale as she watches heaps of people pass by, all busy and chit-chattering and music-blasting with worn-out sneakers walking the ground where a million and one people have been walking before them.

It is a strange thought, she has to admit, but then again she is known for having them.

She doesn't know why a guy in particular catches her eye - because God knows he looks like a prude, vest thrown across a carefully buttoned shirt and a book clammed beneath his arm - but he does, and he doesn't even have the decency to look away, the nostalgia-blue of his eyes focused and insisting.

Something pulls a trigger deep within, and there is just something awfully irritating about his dead-serious look, so maybe that's why she flickers her cigarette butt to the ground nonchalantly, calling out.

"Hey! Whatcha' staring at?"

He stops in his tracks right in front of her, and she curses the advantage he has in height. The stuck-up guy eyes her up and down, frowning at her leather jacket covered in studs and bright slogans before lifting his eyes to her eyeliner-smudged ones.

"What? Can't speak, either?"

"I am perfectly capable of speaking", he replies without missing a beat. "I was just at a loss of words at your.. attire."

"Says the medieval nerd?"

He frowns again, and it is strangely familiar. Then, he promptly turns to leave.

"Hey!" she calls again, rational reasons going by unnoticed. "What's your name, anyway?"

"I don't.." he begins, and then freezes, as he obviously catches sight of something behind her.

"Fitz-will-i-_aaam_!" an overly energetic male voice yells, and the girl turns just in time to get a glimpse of a mop of red hair and a waving hand, before she is sharply jabbed in the side and pushed into what looks like an alley.

The guy has pressed her against the wall with one hand locked around her shoulder, still keeping her at arm's length as he silently waits, eyes on the street further down where they stood moments ago.

Perhaps she should be afraid by now, but taboo things always were her favorite kind, and besides, this guy is far too harmless, anyway - which is exactly why she throws her head back and purely laughs.

"_Fitzwilliam? _That's your _name_? Oh, man! I feel sorry for you now!" she squeals inbetween laughing attacks, and he merely regards her with an irritated look.

"I am going to leave now."

"No, wait!" she pants, wobbly from the laughter, "I'm so sorry, Fitzwilliam. Of course there is nothing funny about your name, Fitzwilliam."

"I usually go by Will", he growls through gritted teeth. "Although I do not see what use my name could be to a wannabe-punk like yourself."

"Fighting fire with fire, huh?" she asks, rolling her ageless eyes. "If you weren't so stuck-up and proud, perhaps you'd understand a _joke_.."

"Are you saying pride is a fault?"

"In your case, yes, definitely", she sniggers, "Loosen up, will you? Look, let's start over - my name's Lizzie."

His features pull into a scowl, as if he is disgusted by that cognition.

"Stop looking like you're in pain all the time. Laugh a little!" she insists, punching him lightly in the side.

"Are you always this.. _familiar _with people you barely know?"

"No", she smiles, "consider yourself an exception, Fitzwilliam."

"I told you-"

"Yeah, sure, okay. If you're done hiding from your friend - actually, I'm amazed you even have friends - why don't we go eat lunch? Your treat."

Any logically built protests he might've had - and God knows there is plenty of them - is left forgotten in the suddenly loaded air as rain starts to pound down from London's wide-open sky. At least that's one thing that's not unusual in the slightest, but Lizzie watches his chestnut hair get stuck against the skin on the side of his neck where tiny droplets have gathered, and his hazy eyes that do not leave hers once, and she can see his walls crumbling ever-so-slightly; just long enough for her to realize that all she has to do is give the last stab, and she's won the argument just like that.

"It's raining", she says instead, softly now, surprising even herself; perhaps it is the rain drowning her otherwise clearly ringing voice out.

He sharply nods, and his eyes flicker about the features of her face.

"We should go inside somewhere", she suggests, but the words lose their meaning as soon as they leave her dry lips, and then-

(pictures flickering, grey-scale and sepia; a picturesque countryside, carriages, fancy dresses, ball rooms with beautifully painted roofs, tutting mothers, overwhelming estates, witty dialogues, tumult-shaded eyes, and a rain storm)

-he leans in, and it's all it takes.

Lizzie doesn't have the time to think, it's just a firework-tainted cloud passing through her unusually blank mind, and then there's just his body warmth so close to hers and the unsteady breathing pattern lingering beneath them.

"Your hands are cold", she offers, looking up at him through wet bangs and too-much eye make-up and layers and layers of lifetimes on repeat.

He nods again, but his hands stay right where they are, long fingers splayed across her cheek, and he does not let go (this time).

**A/N; **

God, I love Pride & Prejudice. I reallyreallyreally do. I adore it with my entire being. I worship it with all my might. I am in love with Mr. Darcy. Okay, moving on..

This was just an idea that came to me kind of on a whim, as I re-watched the movie (which I, by now, should tire of) last night. It's one of those what-if-scenarios. What if their pride or difference in society had gotten in the way of them actually admitting their love to each other in the end? What if they had _not _married, since Elizabeth did reject him the first time?

What if they met... IN ANOTHER LIFE. DAM-DAM-DAM-DAAAAAM. Okay, I know it's not exactly original, but I still think of it as interesting. Haha. I hope you'll like it, despite the cheesiness.

And yes, I am aware of the plot-changes like Mr. Collins proposal and so on, but I made it that way on purpose so the story woud flow better :) and no, Elizabeth iz not a hooker in their 'after-life', haha. She's just a rebel, and the fastest association I could think of was making her into a kind-of-punkrocker. Sorry if that didn't come across, but this story was kind of sloppily written in the middle of the night. Enjoy, though, 'cause I had fun writing it.


End file.
